


(Anesthesia)- Pulling Teeth

by al_coholica



Series: Little Rocker [6]
Category: Metallica
Genre: Child Abandonment, Fluff, James needs a hug, M/M, Nightmares, Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23105920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/al_coholica/pseuds/al_coholica
Summary: He turns when he hears the old tunes of Creedence Clearwater coming from the right, it’s weird, though; it sounds like someone is holding a tube up to his ear and there’s a speaker on the other end. It’s not loud, just weird.
Relationships: James Hetfield/Lars Ulrich
Series: Little Rocker [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1498580
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	(Anesthesia)- Pulling Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> hi i’m at school so if this is shit blame the education system

_He’s standing in front of his old home in Downey, where the sun is blinding him and burning his already honey-golden skin._

_His hair, like bright, freshly cut straw, blows in front of his face, only he doesn’t feel any wind. It’s more like… a gravitational pull that feels more like a hand pulling at his hair than the wind. Everything around him looks like a Polaroid picture, the house is bathed in sun, that rustic yellow covers everything. Breathing in, he smells the old, musty smell of cereal and the hot air. It takes him by force and drowns out all other senses._

_It’s familiar, but so new at the same time. He turns when he hears the old tunes of Creedence Clearwater coming from the right, it’s weird, though; it sounds like someone is holding a tube up to his ear and there’s a speaker on the other end. It’s not loud, just weird._

_He turns and sees an old ‘67 Chevy, in somewhat nice condition, although the rust along the bottom of the door is quite aggravating. He watches it roll by, but never sees a driver._

_‘Whoa, Ghost car… I must be dreaming about that Christine movie.’_

_But he frowns, he hasn’t seen it yet._

_He attempts to move his leg, but it won’t budge. It feels like his sneaker, as fucked up as it is, is glued to the ground and keeping him there. He wonders how the fuck a duct taped shoe is able to hold him down, even though it can barely stay on his fucking foot._

_The grass under his feet is a watered down, almost brown green, and he can feel a faint touch of nostalgia. He played football in this yard, he can remember his face getting shoved down into the rich earth when he was tackled. He remembers laying in this yard on a blanket and staring up at the stars on cold nights._

_Looking up once more, James’ head fills with more questions. Why was he at his old house? Why does everything look so fucked up?_

_A bead of sweat brushes past his temple, and the young singer moves to wipe it away. He stops his arm though, because there’s a man leaving his house. He’s not a very tall man, with old, cowboyish clothes that James almost laughs at. Nothing escapes his lips though, because he knows that man…_

_Virgil blows past him like he’s not even there, a bag in hand, never to return again. James watches, hurt that his brain would curse him to dream this, his father get into his old pickup truck and fly down the road, not even looking back at his son that was literally standing right there._

_Of course, this is a dream, only a reenactment of what he thinks happened that day. He was still at school when his dad left, he came home to find him gone, he came home to the lie that he was just on a long business trip._

_**You goddamn shithead, leaving us like that, and you wonder why I don’t want anything to do with you, you wonder why I won't let you near Lars or Joel. You left my fucking life, so stay out of it you motherfucker, you traitor…** _

_He turns to the sounds of sniffles, his heart giving a painful twist as he sees his mother, his dear saint of a mother standing in the doorway, her cheeks stained with tears._

_She ignores him as well, only watching her now ex-husband roll down the street._

_“Mama!” James shouts, forcing his legs forward, “Mama! Don’t cry, please don’t cry for him, mom. Don’t you dare cry for him!”_

_She doesn’t hear him though, she just sobs and sobs, already working out the lie she’s gonna tell her kids. She’s working out a way to protect them from the truth._

_It was never a lie, it was protection._

_James feels tears prick his own eyes, and he wipes his eyes._

_His vision is bombarded with black and white. Everywhere, everything is black and white. The sky, the grass, the house in front of him. Only he doesn’t see his beloved mother anymore, he’s staring at his own house. His home, that he bought with Lars, the home bought to raise their son. James furrows his brows, sadness and anger melting into a severe case of confusion._

_What happened here? What’s happening? He can’t hear anything now, even though their bitch neighbor's dog is barking it’s head off at him, snarling it’s shitty little chihuahua teeth at him from behind the chain link fence._

_He sees himself, older, with short hair and broader shoulders, storming from his house, a duffel bag in his tight grasp. Dream him has a tight scowl across his face, his eyes are dead, cold, and angry._

_He sees Lars, older as well, run after him. His soft cheeks are shining with tears in the white sun, his mouth is running a million miles an hour, but nineteen-year-old James can’t hear what his Dane is saying._

_Dream Lars, with a bracelet bound wrist, reaches out and grabs at Dream James’ shoulder in desperation, a sob wracking his silent words._

_James nearly screams as Dream him spins around and smacks Dream Lars, right across the mouth. He sees dark blood fly into the grey grass, and Lars falls into the yard, holding his bleeding mouth. Dream him spits something at the cowering Dane before getting into a shitty pickup truck, much like his father’s, and drives off, leaving Lars to bleed._

_“Lars!” James rushes over to the Dane,_ _throwing himself to his knees and gently placing a hand on Lars’ side. “Babe! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, honest!” He sputters, tears flowing freely from his eyes. He pulls the drummers hand away from his mouth, trying to inspect the damage he’s done. This time, he actually screams when his Dane disappears like dust, those fearful green eyes being the last thing he sees._

_A familiar voices sighs above him. “I knew this would happen.”_

_James sniffs as he runs his hands across the cold grass, searching, feeling for his Lars._

_The voice sighs again, and this time, Virgil crouches in front of his distraught son, looking down at the spot Lars once was with pity. "I just knew this would happen, son. I knew you'd turn out like me someday, just didn't figure it so soon." He continues, his voice caked with mock sympathy._

_James looks up at him, big sad eyes now glossed over with hate, and he scowls._ _"I am **nothing** like you, fucker! I love Lars, and I love my son!" _

_Virgil shrugs, eyeing his son's wedding ring. "I loved your mom, and look how that turned out."_

_"You dick!" James throws himself at his father, ready to kill, ready to rip his fucking head off. "I love them! I love them! Do you hear me, **Virgil**?! I fucking love them!" He spat, slamming his furious fist into Virgil's chest. His wrists were caught in a death grip, and his father yanked him up until they were nose to nose. _

_"You listen to me, **son,** I loved your mom and you and your sister, but then it all became too much for me. It'll become too much for you too, son, it'll become too much for you too." _

James gasped, his eyes flying open. His gasp caught in his throat, and he quickly sat up to keep the sob from escaping him. He was sweaty, oh so sweaty, it coated his skin like he was just dipped in a vat of wax. His heart pounded in his chest so hard he could hear it. He looked around, seeing himself not outside in the hot sun, but in bed, where it was dark and delightfully warm. 

He glanced at the clock. The glowing red numbers read _3:45_. The singer trembled, swallowing down his shaking breath. It was three in the morning, he was home, he was his normal nineteen-year-old self. Looking over, he let out a quiet sigh of relief as he saw Lars, the same baby-faced Lars sleeping peacefully next to him. His tea-colored hair spread across the pillow and framed his round face perfectly, his soft lips move with his incoherent Danish mumbling. 

At least someone was dreaming happily. 

The singer let out another shaky sigh and swung his long legs over the side of the bed, letting the bedding fall off him and bathe his skin in the cold air. His body still trembled, the sweat on his skin froze and caused his teeth to chatter. 

It was just a dream, it was only a dream. James pushed himself from the bed, needing to see his reason for existence, needing to see it _fast._ He padded down the hall, in nothing but socks and underwear, into Joel's room, keeping his movements hushed. He crept up to his sons crib, feeling a warm, comforting feeling as he looked at his little Joel, sleeping peacefully. 

His chubby little cheeks were dusted with wayward freckles here and there, his long eyelashes (a beautiful trait inherited from Lars) feathered out across that squishy little face. His petite breaths seemed to be the only thing that kept James sane. 

_It'll become too much for you too, son._

James reached down and covered Joel with his little blue elephant blanket that Kirk had gotten them when he found out they had a kid together. Not only did he get the blanket, he established himself as the godparent as soon as he saw the little bundle in Lars' arms. "I would gladly die for him if I had to." The curly-headed lead guitarist said in a matter-of-fact tone as he held Joel for the first time. 

The singer grinned to himself, he would gladly, willingly die for Joel, even if he didn't have to. His fathers brash and otherwise wrong words still stung, they still cut a wound that wasn't yet healed, and currently he was bleeding all over the floor. 

"I swear on my life," he began, voice hushed, trembling, "I will never, _ever_ leave you or your mama. I'll always be here, right here, with you, little man." He closed his eyes, attempting to keep the tears from flooding the room. "Always..."

The sound of footsteps caught his attention, causing James to spin around and see Lars, hair messy, blanket draped over his shoulders, sleepy-eyed, standing in the doorway. The Dane yawned and looked from his husband to the crib. 

"Does he need a change?" He asked quietly.

"No." James answered, voice watery. "I just needed to see him." 

Something seemed to switch in Lars, and he was no longer tired. His eyes narrowed, he stepped up to James and grabbed his hand. "What is it, min skat?" 

The singer shook his head and sighed, wiping at the pitiful tears that bled from his eyes. He'd only cried a few times in front of Lars: when he told him about his dad, when he told him about his mom, and when Joel was born. That was it. No more tears from James Alan Hetfield, never again. But this was Lars, his Dane, his husband, the person who gave him their son. Lars was his everything. 

“I...” was all he could get out before a sob wracked through his body, and on the floor of Joel’s bedroom, at four in the morning, James relived his nightmare to his everything.


End file.
